Yep another book blog, We will be signing up for cover reveals, Blog Tours, Events and all kinds of other things! Check out our facebook page : www.facebook.com/DigitalDirtyGirlBookBlog and the group: https://www.facebook.com/groups/DigitalDirtyGirlBookBlog/

That fucking skirt she’s wearing hugs her curves, leaving little to the imagination, and while the view is fucking amazing, she couldn’t be dressed any worse for the ride on the back of my bike. She knew it too and before she followed me out the front door of the swanky steakhouse, she sashayed those hips of hers to the bar. She asked the bartender for a steak knife, handed it to me and asked me to do what every motherfucker in the joint wanted to do—cut the skirt. I traded the serrated blade of the steak knife for the sharp blade I kept in my back pocket and sliced through the stitch behind her knees, extending the slit up the back of the skirt so she could straddle my bike. I’d tear the fucking thing off when it came time for her to straddle me, and just for kicks, maybe I’d cut it off her because fuck me, cutting through the stitching of her skirt had me hard as a rock.

It took every ounce of control I could muster not to let my hands travel under that skirt and sink my fingers deep into her ass cheeks. Instead, I kept my hands on her hips, spun her around and stared up into her eyes. They might be my favorite part of her. After spending most of my time with her fighting not to take in every inch of her body, allowing myself only glimpses so I wouldn’t be distracted by her curves, I became pretty fucking hooked on those eyes. They were a bewitching shade of green.

So fucking rare.

So fucking unique.

So damn pretty.

They had the power to put me in a trance just like her hips that swayed back and forth like a pendulum.

Fuck—everything about her made me want to forget who I am and learn who she is.

The roar of my engine purrs, distracting me from her perfect face and I see the parking attendant pull my bike up in front of us. I hand him the ticket, pay the fee and turn around to Gina, watching as she bites down on her plump bottom lip and assesses my Harley.

Throwing a leg over my bike, I grab the helmet dangling off one of the handlebars and offer it to her.

“Still want that ride?” I ask when she doesn’t take the helmet and continues to stare at the bike. I don’t see any hesitation when her eyes lock with mine and a smile spreads across her sensual mouth—a mouth made for a man to dream of when he’s lonely.

“You bet your ass I do,” she says, closing the distance between us as she braces her hand on my shoulder and straddles the bike. She fits the helmet to her head and adjusts the chin strap as I glance down at her five-inch spiked heels and shake my head. She didn’t belong on the back of a motorcycle, she belonged sprawled out on leather seats in the back of a limo with the divider rolled up and me between her legs.

We were night and day. She was beauty and class and I was nothing, a shell of a man left broken and tormented from war, fresh out of prison, an outlaw—yet, here we were and neither of us seemed to give a fuck.

Janine Infante Bosco lives in New York City, she has always loved reading and writing. When she was thirteen, she began to write her own stories and her passion for writing took off as the years went on. At eighteen, she even wrote a full screenplay with dreams of one day becoming a member of the Screen Actors Guild.
Janine writes emotionally charged novels with an emphasis on family bonds, strong willed female characters, and alpha male men who will do anything for the women they love. She loves to interact with fans and fellow avid romance readers like herself.
She is proud of her success as an author and the friendships she’s made in the book community but her greatest accomplishment to date would be her two sons Joseph and Paul.